


Sonatas and Etudes

by Atroposisms



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Aftercare, Angst, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Breathplay, Character Death, Character Study, Choking, Clothed Sex, Consensual Violence, Creampie, Crossbow Play, Cutting, Death, Drabble, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Edgeplay, Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Fear Play, Femslash, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Medical Kink, Medical Professionals, Neediness, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Nurses, Obsessive Behavior, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Romance, S&M, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Abuse, Smoking, Smut, Somnophilia, Strangulation, Suicide, Tags Are Hard, Vignette, Whipping, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-07-15 14:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atroposisms/pseuds/Atroposisms
Summary: Series of Fate one-shots and drabbles. Tags will be added as needed.So many universes, so many possibilities.





	1. I. Robin Hood [Louder]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was his way of showing possessiveness.

[Robin Hood/Reader, smut]

I.

You cuddled against him on the couch, spreading the blanket over the both of you. Other Servants lounged lazily around the living room, the sounds of Da Vinci chattering about a new invention and of a movie filled the background. You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, relishing in his warmth, the rare moment of relaxation without a threat following you like a shadow. 

Then there was a hand on your knee, Robin squeezing gently and intently watching for your reaction. A small frown flickered over your face, too fast for anyone else but him to notice. His hand slid up your thigh, slowly but purposefully, and it wasn’t until his fingertips brushed against your inner thigh did you give him a response.

“You wouldn’t.” You glanced at him, your brows furrowed.

Robin wasn’t subtle about his affection, especially once he realized that he was the only one on the receiving end of yours. Normally, though, it was relegated to the realms of hand-holding or a kiss on the cheek - anything more saved for the privacy of your quarters or the broom closet.

The Archer was grinning, his only response for his hand to inch ever closer to the juncture of your thighs.

“Robin, seriously now….” You kept your voice low, glancing about to make sure that none of the other Servants were aware of what was happening underneath the shared blanket. “There are others here.”

“That just adds to the excitement, doesn’t it?” He didn’t seem at all concerned by the surroundings.

“You wouldn’t _dare_ -,” but whatever you were going to next say was cut off as you felt him rub gently against the triangle of your panties, pushing the fabric to one side. Your breath caught in your throat and you closed your eyes when he teased at your clit. Little sparks of pleasure shot up your spine, and you bit down on your lip, fighting back a moan that threatened to spill forth.

“Really, you think I wouldn’t?”

And you could hear the smugness in his voice, and knew that he absolutely would.

II.

The broom closet had become a new favorite for the both of you, with Robin often appearing behind you to pull you aside and into the dark room. There had been multiple occasions in which he had simply taken you away from whatever conversation you were engaged in, leaving the poor person you had been talking to blinking in confusion. One second you were there, chatting animatedly, and the next there was the quiet creak of a door closing and the muted click of a lock turning.

Today was no different, with the Archer whisking you away from Xuanzang. The priest pouted, realizing what had happened, but otherwise didn’t protest.

After the first few times Robin had done this, most of Chaldea had come to accept your random disappearances with only minor protests and annoyed pouts.

Nudging the door shut with his foot, Robin immediately pulled you into a fervent kiss without bothering with a greeting. Eyes closed, you leaned into his embrace, feeling one arm wind around your waist. The other wandered to grab your ass, squeezing roughly, and you squeaked.

“Missed you too,” you whispered breathlessly, pulling away. You licked your lips, tasting the menthol from his cigarettes. “Can’t be too long today, I have a staff meeting in a bit.”

“Do you have to go?” The almost petulant tone was cute, and you smiled. “I have far more interesting things in mind…” Robin flipped up your skirt, tugging down your thong before you could even formulate a response. Calloused fingertips brushed along your slit, feather-light, making you shiver. “Far more fun, and I promise I’ll have you screaming for hours.”

“Can’t, Romani and the others are…” You trailed off, words petering out when he began to rub your clit in gentle circles. “Missed the last two meetings, can’t miss another,” you said, forcing the words out. 

Still pouting, Robin sighed and dropped his hand away. “Fine, fine. If you must.”

Instead of leaving, however, you sank to your knees in front of him. “I said as long as it didn’t take _too_ long it’d be fine.”  Running your hands up his thighs, you peered up at him, smirking. “I still want to have some fun.”

Robin placed his hand on your head, stroking your hair gently. “Take the lead, then.”

You undid the zipper of his pants, tugging it and his boxers down with almost unseemly haste. Taking his hard cock in hand, you gave it a few languid strokes, and licked at the pre-cum that gathered at the tip. His grip tightened on your hair.

“I thought we were short on time,” he said, and already you could hear the slight strain in his voice.

Your answer was to take the head of his cock in your mouth, not bothering with the tease. Before you could do anything else, there was pressure on the back of your head as Robin pushed you down further onto his length until you were gagging slightly.

“Very nice,” he breathed, tugging lightly at your hair, guiding your mouth up and down his cock. “I’ve missed fucking your mouth.”

So much for letting you take the lead.

III.

Robin grabbed hold of your hands, pulling them away from your mouth and behind your back.

“Don’t, I want to hear you.” His voice was low and rough, his breathing heavy as he thrust into you.

You whimpered, turning your head to the side so your cheek pressed against the cool metal of Romani’s desk.

Earlier, Robin had pulled you inside the doctor’s office, swiftly bending you over it, scattering pens and papers and sending one of Da Vinci’s inventions clattering to the floor. Your flimsy thong had been tugged to your ankles, the Archer sliding a finger inside of you, then a second, making sure you were wet enough before he thrust his cock into your cunt. He was harsh enough that you cried out loudly in surprise, and he gave you no time to gather yourself, immediately setting a rough pace.

You tried to muffle your moans the best you could, at least until he pinned your hands behind your back.

“Robin…!” Sharp bursts of pleasure had you shaking, his name falling unbidden from your lips. You lay there, eyes closed, cheek rubbing against the desk with the force of his thrusts.

“Good girl. A little louder now.”

You knew there was a pleased, sly smirk on his face when you obeyed, moaning his name even louder.

The office was filled with the sounds of the desk creaking, of your whimpers and cries of Robin’s name, of the Archer breathing harshly, an occasional moan breaking through. Your self-control was quickly slipping away from you as you felt a hand reach around and between your legs, circling your clit in harsh little circles, moans steadily increasing in volume.

You could feel yourself teetering on the precipice, the pleasure starting to overwhelm you in it’s intensity.

"That's it," Robin purred, enjoying your reactions. "Cum for me."

Moments later, you tipped over the edge, crying out loudly as you came.

Robin continued to pound into you, continued to rub your clit, the sensations starting to edge into pain. You wanted to jerk away from him, wanted him to continue to fuck you, but all you could do was lay there.

“Want you to cum, Robin,” you gasped out, “please, need you to cum inside of me.”

“Close,” was the only warning you received before Robin stilled, bottoming out within you. He came inside, a rush of warmth that sent you shivering and moaning, sparks fluttering through your vision.

The two of you remained that way for a few minutes, and slowly your breathing slowed and deepened. A languid feeling spread through your body, broken only when he pulled away from you.

“You alright?” He asked, concern flooding his voice.

With gentle and steady hands, Robin helped you stand, making sure you wouldn’t fall. The weakness hadn’t quiet left your legs just yet.

“Mm, yeah, I’m fine.” A small smile spread across your face as you quickly arranged your clothes back into presentability.

“Good, good.” Fishing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket, Robin handed one and you placed it between your lips. He lit his first, making sure the end caught before leaning forwards. The cherry-red end of his cigarette touched yours, the tip flaring , and you inhaled.

Sighing, you took a moment to enjoy the smoke, glancing about to survey the mess. Definitely needed to clean up before the two of you took your leave, but you were certain Romani would realize  _something_ had happened in here. 

“Ah, you know, you were a little loud…” Robin’s comment broke you out of your reverie, the slightest hint of a chiding tone in his voice.

“Excuse _you_ , you were the one encouraging me to be louder. You don't get to comment.” You rolled your eyes, glancing away from him. “By the way...has the door been open this entire time?”

No answer.

“Robin...Did you leave the door open on _purpose_?”

Robin looked away, took a deep drag, and tried to feign innocence.


	2. II. Gilgamesh [A Gathering of Splinters (I)]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wounds others without effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after writing the Gil angst, I decided I wanted to flesh out what happened before and build on their relationship. Which leads to this chapter. I've re-arranged the chapters, so what was originally chapter two is now chapter three. 
> 
> Both stand well on their own.

I.

He falls into bed with you with what could be seen as unseemly haste. Comes up with all sorts of reasons for it - why not indulge in the pleasures of flesh? Why not humor a Master so effectively cut off from the rest of humanity? Why not?

There was no reason for him not to. If he became bored, he could toss you aside easily if he so wanted. Even expected that to be the case. 

It was amusing bedsport, and you pleased him to no end with your responsiveness to whatever he brought with him to your bedroom: soft ties so you lay there bound with your legs spread wide for him, blindfolds (although inevitably he would pull those away, wanting you to gaze upon him), teasing that lasted until he reduced you to near tears, begging and pleading for release.

Somehow, what started as a hedonistic drive for pleasure slowly morphed into something else.

It was thrilling to see you so vulnerable in those moments, so unlike the self you presented to everyone outside of your quarters. Little glimpses at first, enticing pieces of what lay beneath the person you displayed to the world. Then more, bit by bit, until he grew to appreciate you, and not just what you brought with you into bed. 

And so he staked his claim, treating your bedroom almost as if it were his own, coming and going as he pleased, regardless of whether or not you were there. Staked his possession, encompassing far more than just the physical space.

It was your private self, revealed only to him - that was something valuable, and he guarded it fiercely.

II.

“Unclothe yourself,” Gilgamesh says, voice low. Red eyes are narrowed, eyeing you with a predator’s watchfulness.

You pull off your shirt, let it fall to the floor, and slide under the covers next to him. Immediately he places a hand on your side, rubs his hand up and down, almost a massage.

"Closer," he says, waits for you to scoot until your body is against his. "Much better. I don't want what's mine to hide anything from me." His voice is low and honeyed with a tint of affection.

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. Regardless, the warmth and firmness of his body is a comfort, and you take a moment to bury your head in his chest. Strange how he became such a source of happiness despite his acerbic ways.

"I wouldn't," you say, finally pulling away just enough to peer up at him.

"Good. Keep no secrets from me."

“Oh, I would dream of it,” you say, "after all, there's no  _possible_ way I could hide anything from a glorious king such as yourself." 

“My, how impertinent. Such an acid tongue,” he admonishes, but his tone is playful.

“Pretty sure it’s my ‘acid tongue’ that charmed you in the first place.”

“Mm, it’s merely one of your many -” He trails his hand down to your ass, and grabs it, smirking at you all the while, “ - charm points.”

You squirm as his nails dig into your flesh, grinding your hips against his and he rewards you with a sharp exhale, the hint of a moan in it.

III.

Gilgamesh smooths your hair away from your face, and you lean into his touch. His fingertips are soft - the result of simply using the Gate rather than a bow proper.

You raise a hand, placing it over his and press it to your cheek, eyes closed. There’s a little smile on your face.

"Enjoying yourself?" His voice is surprisingly soft, devoid of it's usual boisterous arrogance.

"Mmhm."

It's a rare moment, the brief lull after battle, where the two of you manage to find a bit of privacy. Those moments are seized with fervor - anything to get the two of you through each Singularity.

He knows it.

Gilgamesh leans down, kisses you sweetly, one arm wrapping about your waist with his hand on your lower back. He presses you to him; you relax, hands ready to tangle in his hair -

\- but all too soon there are approaching footsteps.

You sigh, and pull away.  Your eyes are shadowed, a blankness but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

"Let's go then," you say. "At least we're almost done."

IV.

There are lines of fatigue on your face, and no amount of sleep smooths them away. You toss and turn in your sleep almost every night, often waking him up. Sometimes he hears you awaken with a gasp, sitting upright, panting heavily.  You would remain like that, frozen stiff, while he groped for your hand in the darkness, holding it until your breathing returned to normal.

Eventually, you'd lay back down, body stiff. Gilgamesh would pull you close, press kisses to the top of your head, nuzzle his face against the crook of your neck.

He doesn’t know what to say in those moments.

Anything and everything he thinks of seems too trite, so he remains silent and hopes his actions are enough to soothe away your worries.

V.

 _Don’t hide things from me,_ he says, and yet there’s no reciprocation from him. Months and months of stone-walling. You know it, he knows it.

So you turn it back on him, sudden irritation bleeding into your voice as he says it again one night - a harsh reminder of how much you've given, with almost nothing received in return. You push away from him, and it shocks him.

“And you? What about you? You know everything about me, but you…”

He’s surprised by the bitterness, the way your voice catches, and he can’t meet your eyes.

“I’m yours, you know that, but are you mine?” You ask, voice rough.

Gilgamesh can’t answer your question, and a cold, sharp laugh catches in your throat.

“I thought so. I figured…” You shake your head, roll onto your back and look at the ceiling. “The only time you share is in our dreams, and that’s because you have no choice.” There’s weariness in every curve of your body, and he knows that for once, he can’t erase it.

“I know what happened, but I want to hear it from you.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Thinks about how he wants to explain, wants to tell you, but he can’t. The words stick in his throat, unable to force them out.

Sees their face in his mind’s eye, but the memories choke him and his lips can’t even form their name.

You roll onto your side, stare intently at him, then reach out to caress his face.

“Never mind, I just...,” you trail off. “Forget it, I’m tired. Let’s just go to sleep, okay?” And you kiss him chastely, smiling as if everything really is ‘ _alright_ ’.

But he catches you awake in the middle of the night, staring up at the ceiling, unblinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still rather dissatisfied with this chapter, but oh well, it be like that sometimes.


	3. III. Gilgamesh [A Gathering of Splinters (II)]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swallows his grief, and chooses to walk away rather than remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: this wound up being a two-parter, with the first part written later. I've re-arranged the chapters so they're in chronological order.

0.

Maybe they should have seen it, maybe they should have noticed all of the signs.

But that's the thing, isn't it? No one ever puts it together until it's too late, and then the guilt overwhelms. There's the mutters of 'we should've realized', 'if only there was something we had done differently'. Of 'I wish they would have just talked to us, we could have helped'.

It should have been expected. It was all there, if anyone cared to look. The strained, barely-contained edge of hysteria in your laughter, the way your smile seemed to stretch into a grimace, the blank look in your gaze.

There was no malice in the way they all turned a blind eye to the signs. They simply didn't want to know, to see, to realize what a toll it was taking on you.

Really, burdens shouldn't be shouldered by oneself, let alone a single person with the responsibility and title of 'Savior' - capital S, and with all the pressures that it entailed. Even with the help of Servants, at the end of the day, it was all on you, wasn't it? What decisions you made, no matter how small, had a lasting effect that rippled through the eras, impacting the present.

Who else could understand the position you were in? All the empathy in the world couldn't help, and sympathy too often bordered on pity for you to want it.

The pressure mounted and grew into vile vines. And so it was hidden, choked down even as it strangled you from the inside out, leaving you gasping in the night. All the oceans in the world couldn't wash away the terror of making a false move.

It was a simple decision, a simple move - the first one you made of your own will, not one borne out of necessity of saving the world. Comical, really, in how easy it was. One small step to the left, a little gasp, and it was over.

No dramatic scream, no loud declaration of your intentions.

There one second, gone the next, your body lying limp on the ground. It wasn't until the noise and shrieks of battle died down did any of the Servants notice what had happened. The lack of orders, of cheerful celebration resounded louder than any explosion.

Gathering about your body, they stared down at you in stunned silence. Even Shuten-Douji had nothing to say, her coy smile gone from her face.

It was poetic in a cliche sort of way, like a TV drama. A single arrow to the chest, with blood blooming and staining the white of the Mystic Code. But unlike a show, there was no final goodbye. No Gilgamesh kneeling beside you, cradling you to him as you whispered one final 'I love you' or a last kiss. No dying wish for him to remember the happy memories, or to forgive himself for not seeing this coming. No deus ex machina to save the day, with you miraculously healed and brought back to him. No closure whatsoever.

There was only the hollow look on your face.

I.

Days come and go as Roman and Da Vinci discuss what to do with the Servants that wander the halls, as silent and lost as ghosts. He doesn't join them, and as it were, they wanted to be left alone to their thoughts.

Instead, Gilgamesh lingers in your room, until the scent of you is gone from your clothes, from the bedsheets. He even opens a bottle of your perfume, but it fails to evoke the same feelings and memories. It lacks the warmth of your flesh, flat and bland.

He examines your trinkets, the little things you brought with back with you from each Singularity, turning a bedroom as sterile as a surgeon's operating room into one filled with life. One had been set aside, a little note underneath it written your sprawling script - 'for you to keep'. He picks it up; it's a necklace. Nothing spectacular, or noteworthy, but he knows it's one you wore everyday, and for all the time he's spent with you, he can't remember you ever taking it off.

Standing there in silence, he holds it gingerly in his hand, and wishes you were there for him to clasp it around your neck.

II.

The Golden Archer thinks back, scours his memory, ruminating over each moment, turning them over in his mind over and over again.

He can't decide if he wants to forget everything, or if he wants to hold onto every precious moment.  Can't decide if he wants to remember how you stood firm in the face of his scathing words, regarding him with an annoyed fondness, even laughing as he comes up with ever-convoluted variations of his go-to insult of 'mongrel'. If he wants to remember the slow, almost imperceptible slide towards something more than Master and Servant, how he convinces himself at first it's nothing more than physical.

You were a Master, true, but human nonetheless, and you still yearned for the touch of another being. He knew and recognized that, and so with his usual arrogant laugh, gave you permission to tumble into bed with him. Your touch was hesitant at first, a cautious reverence, fingers skimming along the planes of his body.

 _'Go on,'_ he had whispered, _'you may enjoy me in all my glory.'_

You did, and it was a form of worship all it's own; his name spilling from your lips was a prayer and the way you clung to him, shaking, as you came was heavenly.

Gilgamesh closes his eyes; of all the women and wives he's had, you were the one he treasured the most.

III.

He thinks he should blame it on himself.

No, he does blame it on himself, even as he wants to pin the blame on the other Servants. Servants who were more emotionally astute, who should have noticed the changes. But the majority of blame he keeps to himself.

Thinks of all the mistakes he's made, the push and pull of emotional availability and vulnerability. Bringing you close only to shove you aside, and he thinks of how you bore it all with patience. It terrified him to have any sort of genuine emotional intimacy, and he hid that fear with a boisterous laugh - the haughty one that set people's teeth on edge - and with reducing everyone to being 'mongrels'.

That was safety.

But so was being in bed with you at night, an arm curled around your waist, pulling you close to him. And all the times he's seen you in shared dreams, reliving memories and wandering through city dreamscapes arm in arm - there was comfort in that.

Safety and comfort for him. Maybe you had initially taken solace in it, too. And he can't be sure when that was no longer true for you.

The signs were numerous, the more he thinks about it.

Thinks of the first time he woke in the night to see you were gone from bed, or with you sitting on the edge, staring at the wall. _'Sorry',_ you would say, _'I was just getting some water.'_ How you would pull away from him when he tried to cuddle you close, unable to find the right words to say to you, hoping you would understand the feelings in his actions. How on some days you were utterly distant from him, and on other days there was a desperation in the way you kissed him, as if it were the last.

Maybe that wasn't enough for you. Maybe the lack of words was the biggest mistake he had made. Maybe he should have said something.

IV.

There are letters.

All the Servants have one in their hands - some longer than others. All of them handwritten by you. Gilgamesh notices his is by far the lengthiest, pages long.

A few Servants retreat to their rooms to read them alone while others stand there. The ones that remain read in silence.

He holds the papers. Considers reading them. Decides not to.

With dramatic flair, he tears the papers into two, then quarters. The sharp, tearing sound resonates, and the others in the room look up in disbelief at his actions.

He continues to tear the paper until all that remains are fine pieces that litter the floor, some swept away by the AC blowing.

"I have no use for the words of a dead mongrel."

Even as he says it, he doesn't believe it.

V.

Gilgamesh holds the necklace in his hand.

 _'For you to keep'_ was what the note had said. And for a few days, he keeps it on his person - a token, a final memory of who you were and what you meant to him.

But even that became painful, and the lightness of the chain began to turn heavy, as if burning into him.

It reaches the point of unbearable, and so he takes it off. Foolish of him to keep a cheap little trinket of a mortal human.

But he's unable to bring himself to destroy it, or to throw it away. Or to even give it to another Servant for them to treasure as a final keepsake.

The portal opens before him with ease, edges rippling slightly. Gold catches the light, casting forth a tint over everything. The hoard of weapons and other items glint and sparkle, individual things lost in the overwhelming hills of treasure.

He takes a moment, gazes at his collection.

Then, with a casual toss of his hand, in goes your necklace. It's immediately lost amongst the mass, indiscernible from anything else.

_'For you to keep.'_

The portal closes.


	4. IV. Gilgamesh [Fault Lines]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hopes that in other universes, another him is easier to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone kick me into writing for another Servant other than Gil, please.

He lies awake at night.

Not that he needs to sleep, really, but he’d rather not toss and turn and wake you. He doesn’t want you to see him like this,, vulnerable and imperfect. Merely imagining it happening makes him feel sick to his stomach, disgust roiling within him. 

Truthfully, he lies awake most nights. Thoughts slide over one another like hissing snakes and scuttling centipedes - glistening, ugly and nasty. Can’t help it - he’s tried to reign them in, but they run free, and wild.

Moments that upset him play over and over in his mind, a terrible movie on a loop that he’s unable to control.

Here - you turn your smile away from him to that disgusting mutt of a Lancer. Gives the idiot the smile, the attention, that rightfully belongs to him.

Here - when you remove him from your party, march into a Singularity without him. He knows that his class puts him at a disadvantage there, but he doesn’t care. The idea that you’re not there by his side is painful  ~~or is it that he’s not there by your side~~?

Here - you’re frowning at him, and he sees the hint of tears in your eyes. Can’t stop repeating the cruel words that spill thoughtlessly from him, a habit engrained for so long he doesn’t care to count the years. You turn away from him, other Servants eyeing the exchange with sympathy for you and unconcealed disgust for him and he’s furious. Thinks how easy it would be for him to just hurt -

But he doesn’t.

He never does, not wanting to reveal more than what you already know.

Thinks and believes that if you’re aware of his imperfections you’ll...what? Leave?

~~ Billions of people on this planet and the idea of a lone human abandoning him makes a familiar anger seethe and boil inside. ~~

Gilgamesh presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, wants to stop the images and the words. Wants to just  _ stop _ all these little signs of his flaws _ - _ ruminating, regrets, hopes for other possibilities. 

Can’t. Can’t stop.

He’s part god, and he thinks his weaknesses as blemishes. 

And so he lashes out at others, in part to hide it from others, in part because he genuinely believes himself to be simply  _ better _ , deserving of worship and adoration. Disdains the  ones that mindlessly idolize him, thinking how it cements their status as filth. Spits insults at you because it’s easy, because it’s what he’s used to. Picks arguments because he’s bored, because he’s empty, because a tiny part of him thinks himself…. ~~What?~~ ~~ Thinks himself of undeserving of you? That can’t be, he deserves everything.  ~~

Berates himself for doing so, two halves of him battling - one part wanting to apologize, because he wants you always with him, the other side berating himself for even considering doing some so low, so human. 

Somehow, though, you always return to him, and he grasps at it as a sign that there’s no reason for him to change. As much as he pushes you away, here you are, by his side, smiling and in love with someone like him. So he holds you in his arms, kisses you with as much sweetness and affection that he’s capable of, believes it to be apology enough that he deigns to touch you and to share his bed.

But it doesn’t stop all the terrible things he’s said to you, and he wonders when the breaking point will be for you. It feels inevitable, a looming future impossible to change.

Can’t stop thinking about when that will happen, how it will happen. Wants something different, but he can’t change.

Gilgamesh lays awake at night, and stares blankly into imagined possibilities of other worlds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Projected so hard onto Gil I might as well be kin with him.


	5. V. Kirei Kotomine [Theatrics]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this play, there are only two roles: punisher and repentant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: heavy S&M, blood, consensual violence

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” The words spill out of you in a desperate rush, and you’re only barely able to muffle a scream as another lash of the cilice lands across your back. The tines bury themselves into your flesh, dragging long scratches as he pulls the whip back towards him. 

It’s a terrible parody of confession, held in the privacy of his office, and it’s the only thing that evokes something other than acedia. 

You shudder violently as the burn of the welts begin to settle in, as rivulets of blood slither down your skin. Gasping loudly, you claw at his desk, digging in hard enough for splinters to lodge themselves under your nails. But Kirei never gives you any time to regain your composure, and another blow rains down on your ass. Blood drips down your legs, and the edges of your vision begin to blur from the pain.

“And what are you sorry for?”

Lost in the haze of pain, you barely hear his sonorous voice. It’s only with effort you manage to bring yourself back to reality.

“F-for existing. For everything.” You know what he wants to hear - two actors in a play who know it by heart, playing it out night after night. “For wanting you.” You laugh bitterly. He’s one of the few things you’ve ever wanted in life, the only thing able to bring relief from the boredom. 

Another blow from him, another cry from you, and the haze returns. The burn becomes all-consuming, and it leaves you feeling languid, the sensations mingling into a heady mixture. You’re breathing heavily, turning your head to rest your cheek against the cool wood, eyes closed. It’s a strange sort of comfort. 

“And I’m sorry for enjoying this,” you continue, “for wanting you to hurt me. For wanting you to find pleasure in this.” 

There’s a pause; this wasn’t part of the script. He knew - of course he did, but it was never spoken. 

Then you hear the hiss as the cilice cuts through the air, and a sharper, harder blow then any of the others fell upon you. Tines lodged themselves into you, and it takes effort for him to remove them. They leave deep gouges on your back, and the sharpness of it makes you shake, to press your thighs together. You hear a clatter as the bloodied whip falls to the floor, can feel Kirei hover over you, and the weight of his body. The cloth of his office brushes against some of your welts, and you hiss.

“Foolish girl.” He runs a hand down your back, nails scraping across your wounds, smearing blood. Kirei leans down even closer, and he whispers in your ear, “Such self-destructive impulses to always seek me out. Is there nothing else that satisfies you?”

Your breath hitches in your throat at the sound of his voice. “No, there’s nothing else. Only you. You know this.”

Kirei pulls away, and you hear a rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Presses the head of his cock against your entrance, and you whimper, try to push back against him, but he holds you down, prevents you from moving.

“Beg.”

“Please, Kirei, I want - need you to hurt and use me. Punish me.”  _ Make me feel something. Make me regret my decision to come crawling back to you.  _ “Hurt me, Kirei.” The words are almost rote, but it’s enough for the both of you. 

He slides inside of you, clothing sticking against the bloody welts, and you moan at the feeling - a fleeting sense of fulfillment. Grabbing hold of your hair, he pulls you so you’re forced to arch your back, and sets a brutal pace. It’s not meant for your pleasure, merely for him to seek his own through your suffering, but you chase the high of pain anyway, enjoying being relegated to a simple tool for his use. There’s not attachment here, but a mutual understanding between sadist and sufferer. He fucks you, and you love it, moans spilling freely, his name falling from your lips in breathy whispers. 

Kirei tightens his grip on your hair, and then with a shove slams your face forwards against his desk. You scream at the impact, and you hear a sickening noise as you realize something’s shattered. It takes you a moment until you realize there’s blood in your mouth, tongue heavy with the metallic-sweet taste, and that blood streams from your nose. You sputter loudly, spitting blood onto his desk and the floor. 

Then he lifts your head back, and does it once again. Pain radiates throughout your face, and still you’re moaning, caught between wanting him to stop and for him to do it once more. 

“Kirei...again.”

He obliges, your vision flickers dangerously, and you swallow a mouthful of blood. You whimper, all your thoughts scattered as the pain morphs into something greater, sweeping through your body and setting every nerve alight with a sharp pleasure. He lifts you, just enough so you avoid inhaling your own blood, and you can hear the faint strain of his own ragged breathing. 

“Oh, god,” you mutter, and feel yourself tip closer to the edge. Close, so close, and it’s terrible how you chase pleasure and gratification like this, but it’s the only way you know how. 

Abruptly, he pulls out of you.

“On your back,” he says, voice rough and almost a growl. Before you can do so, however, he moves you himself, manipulating your body to his liking. Then he slides inside of you once more as you wrap your legs around him, drawing him closer to you. 

You gaze at his face, dark eyes clouded with predatory need and it’s heaven on earth for you. 

“Hurt me,” you gasp, blood spilling from the corner of your mouth and down your cheek. 

His face twists into a sinister smirk, and he wraps both his hands around your throat. The pressure is light, almost careful, at first, just enough for you to struggle to take in breath. With some effort, you place your own hands on his, and press down, an unspoken request.

“As you wish,” he says, and leans into his grip on your throat. 

You whimper, and look up at him, not wanting to break eye contact. Your pulse thuds loudly in your ears, and your moans come out as wheezing breaths. It all feels so good, and when he squeezes, completely cutting off airflow, you cum, clenching around his cock. You dig your nails into his hands, carving red crescents, and Kirei lets out a low moan. His pace stutters just momentarily before he continues, even harsher than before. 

Stars and comets race through your vision, black creeping in around the edges. Your chest heaves as you desperately try to draw air into your lungs, but still he doesn’t relieve the pressure on your throat. Your vision fuzzes even further, and you’re unable to even manage a whimper. You stare up at Kirei, and finally there’s an ecstatic expression on his face, looking down at you with something akin to awe. 

You tighten your legs around his waist even as your grip on his hands begin to slacken. You try to form words, but fail. 

You knew this was bound to happen. Expected it to occur eventually - it was merely a question of when, when either one of you would take it too far, when you would ask too much of Kirei. And it’s what both of you wanted: the ecstasy of snuffing out a life, of dying at the hands of another.

You finally manage to mouth his name, your eyes rolling back into your head.

Your vision turns black.


	6. VI. Diarmuid Alter [Indulgences]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could be a hedonist of the worst sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend came up with and developed the fanservant Diarmuid Alter (Avenger). So, credit to her. I just got to play with him for a little bit.

Diarmuid’s voice rings clearly in your mind, low and smooth, the one he uses when he wants to pull your attention away from whatever it is you’re working on at the moment. He’s beside you, an invisible guardian. 

“You know, you’re working far too hard on this - and you’re far too stressed. Why bother with such a pathetic client and so little pay?” 

You ignore him, bend your head back to the text you’re reading, trying to focus on the relevant passage for a taglock you’re working on. The text is somewhat dense, requiring all of your attention to puzzle through the steps and materials needed. 

“I’ve a much better use for your time,” he continues, “something to help with the stress.”

Between the white noise of chatter of coffee shop patrons and Diarmuid whispering into your mind, you find yourself struggling.

“I can imagine it, pulling you away to the alley behind this cafe, push you to your knees, have you suck my cock. You always look so cute like that.” His voice takes on a roughness that has you suppress a shiver. “Much more enjoyable use of time, don’t you think?”

You begin to twirl your pencil between your fingers.

“I want to see you on your knees, that pretty mouth around my cock, your pretty eyes looking up at me as I fuck your mouth.”

The pencil twirls ever faster.

“Run my hands through your hair, have you take me even deeper. I want to hear you choke.”

You realize that you’ve been reading the same sentence repeatedly. 

“No? How about this - I bend you over, and fuck you hard. I know you’d certainly enjoy that, with how you always moan my name so loudly at home.” There’s a hint of a low groan. “Thrusting into your pussy hard, just the way you like it.”

“Stop it,” you mutter, “you’re really distracting me.” 

“Is that so? Lovely.” His voice is a deep purr. “Think about it, imagine me pulling your hair, how deep I’d be inside of you.”

You try to block out his voice, swallowing hard as you desperately try to focus on the passage. 

Diarmuid speaks even louder in your mind, determined to be heard. “I’ll make you moan, have you scream my name. Bite you and cover you in bruises, little reminders that you’re mine.” His voice is hoarse now, the words ending on a little moan. 

“Seriously, Diarmuid…You need to stop.” You try to keep your voice quiet, not wanting to attract attention to yourself in such a public space. But there’s no denying that you can feel your cheeks heat, and there’s a slight catch in your throat - because you  _ are _ imagining it, and you know how good he makes you feel, how easily he makes you cum.

“Hm? I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Did you say you want me to continue?”

You bite your lip.

“You want me to cum inside of you, don’t you? You love how addictive it is to be filled, how  _ good _ it feels to be marked by me. I want you to beg for it.” There’s a growl to the words now, and you have to cross your legs, trying to ignore the growing knot of desire. “Ah, I can tell that you want it, too. I haven’t even touched you and you’re dripping, aren’t you?” He chuckles, and it’s such a menacing sound.

“Diarmuid.” You’ve no idea what else to say, and his name sounds more like a moan than a warning. You squirm in your seat, pressing your thighs together.

“I can never resist you for too long, and because you’ve been such a good girl I’ll cum inside of you. Then I’ll fix your clothes back into place, have you walk around with a pussy full of my cum. I’ll take you aside wherever there’s a quiet place, fuck and cum inside of you again and again. I know you’d love that, wouldn’t you, you filthy girl.” It’s a definitive statement rather than a question, and a part of you hates how well he knows you. “Never mind, though, I see that you’re busy and determined to work. How very diligent. I’ll stop distracting you now.”

Bastard.

You stare at the book for a moment more, trying to gather your scattered thoughts to no avail. 

Abruptly you begin to pack up your things, faced flushed, shoving things into your bag without a care, trying to ignore how dizzy you are when you stand up. You sling your purse over your shoulder, momentarily lean against the table for support to catch your breath. You just know that he’s smirking. 

There’s triumph in his voice. “Oh? Are we going home now?”


	7. VII. [Multiplicity]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thematic.
> 
> Gilgamesh, Cu Chulainn (Berserker), Diarmuid Alter, Altera.

**[gilgamesh]**

He takes his time to enjoy your body, and it's almost always a drawn-out tease.

Practiced hands trail down your body, his mouth following, pulling forth soft cries of his name. Gilgamesh knows exactly where to touch, where to bite, to make you squirm beneath him and to have you beg him for more.

When his mouth reaches your cunt, you whimper, clamping your thighs around his head, refusing to let him pull away.

Not that he would - he loves the desperation in your voice, and he always wants more of it. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you down as he moans, savoring your taste. You flush and grab at the sheets when you see him looking up at you, red eyes hazy with indolent pleasure.

"Gilgamesh - "

The sound of his name sends him moaning again, and he redoubles his efforts until he's sure your only thoughts are of him.

**[cu chulainn alter]**

He enjoys - if 'enjoy' is even the right word - the contrast between the two of you.

The Berserker rests a hand on your hip, runs it up along your side, feeling the softness of your body - _it would be so easy to kill you, easy to puncture that skin simply by digging his nails into you, you were so ...breakable -_ but stops when you stir, murmuring sleepily.

After a moment of shifting, you nuzzle your face against his chest and fall still.

When he's positive you've fallen back asleep, Cu slips his hand around to your back, and traces the length of your spine. Feels the small ridges of bone - _and all of the ways that you could be hurt keep flitting through his mind -_ and the steady rise and fall as you breathe.

You’re small, fragile, and yet here you are with him.

(Maybe enjoy is the right word.)

**[diarmuid alter]**

"That's it, moan my name." Diarmuid's voice is rough and low in your ear.

_(Needy.)_

You shiver as he presses bites along your neck, making sure to leave vivid bruises in his wake. Little reminders to everyone else around you that you're his, that you've been claimed.

_"Say it."_

_(Desperate.)_

You drag your nails down his back, leaving thin red lines that ooze droplets of blood, and obey. He shudders slightly, then bites down hard once more, a growl rippling forth. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You, I...." Clawing at his back, you wrap your legs about his waist, pulling him tighter against you. “I belong to you, Diarmuid.” You're barely able to recognize your own voice, taut and high-pitched with want, voice shaking from the force of his thrusts.

_(Frenzied.)_

“Only you.”

He growls. "Good girl. _Mine,_ and only mine."

**[altera]**

She shivers beneath your touch, digs her nails into her palms, and holds her hands to her chest, terrified of reaching out to you.

You look at her steadily, hands skimming along her inner thighs, up to her stomach. Soft kisses follow the path of your hands, and she trembles all the harder. You follow the white lines etched into her, and when you finally reach where she’s clenched her hands, you gently pull them away and lace your fingers with her.

“There’s no reason for you to be afraid of touching me.”

Altera closes her eyes, and you know what her response will be.

“All I am meant for is -” She starts.

Leaning down, you kiss her, and she freezes, her words lost. You squeeze her hands, and finally she relaxes, and returns the kiss.

When you finally pull away, you see there’s a light flush on her face, and she shifts her gaze away from your face, clearly embarrassed.

“You are far, far more than that, and always have been,” you whisper, and kiss her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An exercise in trying to be more concise with my language without, hopefully, losing impact.


	8. VIII. Diarmuid Alter [Honeysuckle]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Nori for getting me on that Dia/Dialter train.  
> Currently (semi) patiently saving for Saber Dia.

I.

Diarmuid wants you so damn badly it’s a physical ache.

Cliche? Absolutely.

But it’s true, and it’s something he’s incapable of denying.

He watches you closely as you navigate through the crowds at the charity ball, and the ache grows. It scratches at him, an itch that demands some sort of action from him, and yet he’s unable to do anything.

So he watches as you offer a smile here and there, shaking hands, giving the occasional laugh at what he assumes is some poor joke. He doesn’t like it, and as the night goes on it becomes harder to dismiss his discomfort when he sees men lean in too close to you, when they shake your hand and take a second too long to let go of you.

Doesn’t want to admit that it fills him with rage, and he wants to pull you away, to simply grab hold of you by your wrist and take you home.

Can’t, of course, because this is what you do: find clients at soirees, offer your services as a cursebreaker. He can’t take that away from you - it would be the fastest way to push you away from him, and he can’t bear that thought. Can’t risk any action that might lead to his dismissal.

He watches, clenches his fists as you smile at someone, and remains out of sight.

 

II.

It puzzles him at times how it’s only now that he’s able to find someone who cares about him for who he is. How funny - not once did it happen in his life serving for a King, not as his incarnations as Lancer nor Saber. Only when he shed his past selves and assumed the mantle of Avenger did it finally occur. It’s absurd, really, how such things happen and he decides that fate is a fickle thing and enjoys placing the odd twist in people’s paths.

He mulls over these things as he stands as sentinel outside your room, alert for the slightest sign of anything amiss.

There’s nothing, as usual - your home is silent save for the rustle of trees outside and of you tossing and turning in your bed. It bothers him to know that you’re struggling.

Diarmuid closes his eyes, wishes that he could be there by your bedside, to be the balm that allows you to sleep soundly. Wishes he could smooth your hair away from your face, to hold you, to make sure you understand how deep his loyalty runs.

Perhaps on some level it should disgust him to be so attached, to act like some attention-starved dog desperate for any sort of affection. Can’t bring himself to think that, however, and he chooses to believe that it’s genuine care on your part, that you weren’t one to fake your feelings.

Your bedroom door opens, pulls him free from his thoughts.

Diarmuid turns, sees you standing there with messy hair and an overly large shirt. There are dark circles under your eyes, and he knows that sleep has evaded you far too often lately.

“I can’t sleep.” You pause. “Do you want to come in? To talk. I could use the distraction.”

His face is calm, but his heart leaps at the offer. “If that’s what you desire.”

A tired smile lights your face, and you nod, stepping aside to allow him entry.

 

III.

You sit in his lap, and reach out to touch him. Hesitant fingertips skim the planes and curves of his body in appreciation of his form. He allows you, flinches only slightly when your hand trails to trace the scar left from being gored in his first life.

You notice, and you pull away from him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Diarmuid takes hold of your hand, places it back over the scar and smirks when he sees how it unsettles you.

“Oh? Why the shyness?” he says, “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. The only difference now is that you’re not merely looking.” And he can’t help the teasing note that sneaks its way into his voice.

You flush, but you’re rolling your eyes, and he knows you don’t mind. You resume tracing the borders of the scar, the faint lines that radiate from it. There’s an intent look on your face that he finds endearing, and he’s pleased at how focused you are on him. He loosely wraps an arm about your waist and pulls you closer against him, pauses to see how you would react. Sees you studying him, but you don’t say anything, and he tightens his grip, mindful of how frail you are in comparison to him.

You’re still eyeing him, both hands resting flat against his stomach now. You lean in close, and he expects you to rest against his chest. Instead, your hands slide up to his chest, then his shoulders, and you kiss him.

  
IV.

“It’s alright, I trust you,” you whisper.

The tip of the scalpel barely pricks your skin, and he hesitates for just a second - then he presses down, drawing a straight line. You clap a hand over your mouth, muffling a cry, bent almost double from the shock and try to pull your leg away from him. Diarmuid tightens his grip on your thigh, holds you still. Both of you stare at the cut - it takes a moment for the blood to well up, the red vivid, almost neon. It doesn’t seem real, like it’s fake blood from a cheap Halloween kit. But he’s holding the blade, he made the cut and you’re panting from the pain, and it is real.

You look at him, forcing yourself to take deep, even breaths. “I’m fine, it’s fine. Keep going.”

Diarmuid doesn’t trust himself to say anything. Instead, he turns back to his work. Hands steady, he continues to cut along your thigh, tries to ignore your hiccuping gasps, the sharp inhales of pain. Cuts a little deeper now, traces over some of them - he wants to leave scars, a permanent reminder of this moment, of him. You make a strange noise in the back of your throat - it might have been his name, might have been ‘stop’ and even if it was he couldn’t stop now, transfixed by the sight, by the idea of forever leaving his mark on you. He’s breathing quickly, slit pupils dilated, wants to run his hands over the cuts to wipe away the blood so he can see the result.

But he isn’t done, not yet. Keeps slicing, skin parting effortlessly beneath the blade until his name is complete.

“I’ve finished,” he says softly, lifting the scalpel away from your leg.

You blink at him, clearly dazed. “Oh.” Exhaling shakily, you run a hand through your hair. “That’s good.”

“Does it hurt badly?”

“Well, you did just slice your name into my leg.” When he frowns, you add, “It’s fine, Diarmuid.”

Your reassurance eases him only somewhat.

Both of you sit in silence as Diarmuid gently applies antibiotic ointment, wraps the wound with a bandage and disposes of the used scalpel.

“My turn,” you say finally, reaching for the supplies. “Off with your pants, then.”

He strips, and sees that you’re watching him. “Do you see something you like?” His tone is teasing as he takes his place on your bed.

“You, of course.” You reach out and run the tips of your fingers down his stomach, skim the lines of his abs, feeling his muscles flex beneath your touch. “You should know that by now.”

He gives a low chuckle, grabs hold of your chin, bending to kiss you. There’s a barely concealed violence in the kiss, and the sharp edge of desire surges through him. You moan quietly.

“You’re going to distract me,” you say breathlessly, finally pulling away. “Do you want me to do this or no?”

“I do.” He can’t bring himself to say how much he wants you to mark him, to have wounds and scars that he’d bear with pride. How badly he wants to have a piece of you with him always, can’t say how desperately he’s wanted this for so long.

He wants this, and it pleased him so much to learn that you wanted it as well.

Bruises and bite marks fade and disappear with time, after all, but scars never do.

Your hand is a tad shakier, and you pale significantly as you work. Cut by cut, letter by letter, your name takes shape on his flesh. You try to finish as quickly as you can.

“Done, done, and done,” you mutter, cleaning him up. When you try to apply the bandage over it, he grabs hold of your hand.

“A moment,” he says, and simply gazes down at your name carved into him. His eyes darken, and he looks stunned but pleased. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he traces the sluggishly bleeding letters with a finger.

“Does it hurt?” You’re not quite sure what to say, but your words pull him out of his thoughts.

“Barely.”

“That’s good, I guess.” You smile at him. “As long as you’re happy.”

“And are you happy?” He studies your face.

You lean forwards, kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “Yeah, I am. You make me very happy.”

 

V.

Diarmuid fights with a clever brutality - he doesn’t simply beat his enemies - he utterly obliterates them. It’s a strength that he could turn against you if he so wanted, if you had fallen short of his expectations. His weapons carve crescents through the air; there’s a gurgling shriek from his opponent, a wild spray of blood.

They never stood a chance against him, and they fall to the ground.

He turns, hastily heads towards where he knew you were waiting for him, never wanting to stray from your side for too long. There - standing at the mouth of the dark alleyway, and you smile at him. Moonlight silvers your hair, and your eyes are far too bright. You’re beautiful, standing there in the darkness, and want rises like a tide.

“Are you hurt?” You tilt your head to one side, examining him. He’s splattered in blood, but it’s not his - he’s rarely wounded in battle.

Diarmuid doesn’t say a word, weapons dissipating as he dismisses them, and he stalks towards you. You take a step back, and he sees fear rise within you like a black tide and yes, he could kill you - but he said he’d never hurt you, could never hurt you. His pupils have constricted to mere points, mouth set in a grim line, and it brings to mind a predator. He grabs hold of you, pulls you in a crushing embrace as he kisses you briefly. A growl pulses in his throat as he shoves you against the rough brick wall. You freeze, and he slides hands slick with blood run up underneath your thighs, lifts you, pins you with his body.

“Need you, right now,” he growls, barely able to string together a full sentence. He’s dizzy, the rush of battle refusing to fade. His nerves feel as if a current has passed through them, horribly energized - the fight wasn’t enough for the adrenaline to drain away.

You pull away from the kiss, gasping slightly. You lick your lips, taste blood from where he’s bit you. “Wait - Dia - “

Not saying anything, he shifts one hand to grope at your cunt, silencing you. You grab at his shoulders, and he revels in your touch. Diarmuid tears away your underwear with ease, fumbles with his pants, pushes them down just enough. He leans in, presses his mouth to your throat and you tilt your head. Biting hard, he pulls forth a strangled moan, hears the pain in your voice as his teeth break skin. He’s intent on leaving bruises and sunken impressions to mar your neck - marks he’ll view later with triumph.

He lifts his head, gold eyes narrowing as he stares at you, breathing heavily and he pushes his cock inside of you. You gasp, knocking your head against the wall and he can’t help the hiss through his teeth at the feel of you around him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls, “tell me that you’re mine.” Kisses you and thrusts harshly until you’re panting. “ _Tell me_.”

The words tumble out without a thought. “I’m yours, only yours.”

It’s all he’s ever wanted and more.


	9. IX. Yan Qing [An Angel of Sorts]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better this than an angel of mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: non-con somnophilia, drugging, medical abuse.  
> Based off of Shinjuku!Yan Qing. The new CBC CE of Yan Qing was absolutely glorious.

I.

With a sharp tug, he opens the blinds, sending light tumbling forth into your room, hitting you square in the face.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

You groan, and weakly pull the covers over your head to block out the light.

“No, it’s too early.” Your words are muffled, thick and slightly slurred.

Yan Qing clicks his tongue, and pulls the blanket back down. You blink up at him blearily, barely awake and lucid. “It’s already ten. The physical therapist will be here soon.”

Sighing, you lift a shaking hand to rub at your face. “Fiiiine, if I have to.” Not that you really had a choice in that matter.

Without prompting, Yan Qing carefully slips an arm under your shoulders, helping you to sit up.

“Did you sleep well last night?” He asks, hoping some conversation will wake you up a bit more. PT would be frustrating for everyone involved if you weren’t all there just yet.

The question causes you to start, and you look at him, wide-eyed and panicked for a brief moment before looking away. Not fast enough - he catches the flush that spreads across your face.

“Y-yeah, I slept fine,” you mumble, although your response is ruined by a yawn.

“Oh? Sure about that?” He can’t help the teasing note that creeps into his voice.

If anything, the blush on your face deepens. You raise a hand to cover your mouth, and he sees that the shakiness has intensified. You refuse to meet his gaze.

“Just a few dreams, that’s all,” you say, and he knows you’re trying hard to act in a dismissive manner.

“Hopefully not nightmares,” he says lightly, helping you dress.

You freeze, and he sees the panic return to your face. “No, not nightmares.”

“That’s good. As long as they’re not nightmares.”

“Definitely not.”

Yan Qing smiles.

 

II.

He helps you into the tub, and you slowly sink into the steaming water. Your tremors ease somewhat as you relax, exhaling loudly.

It’s during these moments when he finds it most difficult to remain professional as his occupation dictates - here you are, at your most vulnerable, in one of the most intimate situations possible, and all he wants to be able to do is let his hands roam and touch you as he wishes.

But he can’t. Yan Qing has to remind himself of that over and over again as he runs the washcloth over your body.

God, he desperately wants to know what your moans sound like when you’re awake.

He skims his hand up your inner thighs, rubbing gently. You’re leaning against the wall, head back, eyes closed - no need to watch his every move as you trust him, after all. You spread your legs a little bit wider.

He swallows, just barely stops himself from dropping the cloth to rub at your cunt with his hand, to slide a finger inside of you. Images of you moaning, bucking your hips against his hand, pleading for him to make you cum flash through his mind, bright and sharp. A fantasy that he’s thus far managed to avoid thinking of during the hours when you’re awake, and yet here he is, his hand at the juncture of your thighs and he could probably brush your clit, just to get a small reaction, just a little _touch_. He just wants to see, wants to know, to have a taste of what it’d be like if you were conscious. His hand inches up closer. He can get away with this, he knows he can get away with it, just a little bit -

“Yan Qing? Is something wrong?”

He blinks, startled out of his thoughts, then laughs. The images of you cumming on his hand crack and shatter into tiny fragments as he’s tugged back into reality.  “No, nothing’s wrong. What makes you think that?”

You shrug, look a little sheepish. But you're staring at him intently. “You looked distracted. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

The temptation to lean in and kiss your cheek as reassurance has him in a stranglehold. Instead, he forces himself to breathe normally, for his voice to remain steady. “I’m fine, promise,” he says, and laughs again.

 

III.

As with most things, it started off small.

Little touches here and there - an excuse to fix your hair or your clothing, or perhaps an arm around your shoulders to steady you even though it wasn’t really needed.

And then it somehow just escalated from there.

Even his nightly visits to your room started off small. Convinced himself that it was because he needed to make sure you were alright - his parents paid good money for him to be your live-in medical caretaker, after all.

It progressed.

Brief visits became sitting by your side to stroking your hair. Then it became pushing your shirt up your chest so he could see your tits, followed by pulling your shorts down to stare at your cunt. Just look, he told himself, don’t touch - although that didn’t last long, either. It was impossible for him to not touch you, to not play with your pussy.

It’s a nightly occurrence now.

He’s grateful for the sedating effects of your medications. Much easier to have something on hand for him to use. Even so, he’s careful, always watching for your reactions to make sure you remain asleep.

Quietly, he pulls apart your legs and kneels between then. He wants to be able to do this when you’re awake so you can see him, so you can tell him exactly what you want, how you want it. But for now, it’s not a possibility, and so he’ll have to be satisfied with this.

Yan Qing gently brushes his fingertips against your cunt, finding your clit and teasing it gently. When there’s no sign of you waking, he increases the pressure, fingers circling. Your body twitches a little bit, your breath catching in your throat. A little bit more, and you’re wet enough for him to slide a finger inside of you, then another.

You’re breathing faster, but still asleep.

His patience is thin tonight - this will have to be good enough.

With one hand, he shoves down his pants, pulling forth his already half-hard cock. He tears open the condom, keeping an eye on you. You don’t stir. He rolls the condom on, then presses the head of his cock against your entrance, slowly sinks into you, tries not to swear at feeling you clench around him.

Yan Qing is gentle with one hand still rubbing at your clit, and he’s staring at your face intently for any signs of wakefulness, imagines what you’d look like if he were fucking you while you’re awake. Fantasizes about what you would sound like and what he’d say to you -

 _You feel so good,_ he’d murmur, and lean down to kiss you. Maybe bite at your neck and leave a mark, one that he’d refresh every night to ensure it’d never fade. _So loud_ , he’d tease, _Do you like me fucking you that much? Is my cock that good?_

You’d moan his name, urging him on to fuck you even harder, even faster until all coherency left you and the only words you could manage would be his name -

Imagines the flush on your face, the way you bite your lip in an attempt to hold back your cries (but failing), and how you’d grab at the bed sheets before taking hold of his hair and pulling or clawing your nails down his back.

Thinks of you marking him too, maybe even leaving bites that he’d have to hide like his tattoos.

At that, he thrusts a little too hard, and you jerk, murmuring something groggily, and then a moan escapes you. The sound is a pure delight, and even though your eyes flicker beneath your lids, he doesn’t stop, only slows his movements.

_Do you want me to cum inside of you? Tell me where you want my cum._

And you’d beg, _Yes, yes please, Yan Qing, cum inside of me._

He murmurs your name under his breath, and stills; you begging for his cum pushes him over the precipice. Still, cumming inside of a condom isn’t particularly satisfying. He pulls out, and carefully removes it, then stares at your wet cunt.

It’d be so much better if his cum was leaking out of you, if he could properly fill you over and over again. What a shame.

Well. Maybe someday soon.

* * *

 

“Good morning!” He gently shakes you awake. “Time to get up, sunshine.”

It takes a moment or two for you to open your eyes, and he worries that perhaps he had used too much of your sedative last night.

“Morning already?” Your voice is thick with sleep, and you sound displeased at having been woken up. You try to roll over, to huddle back under the blanket. “Noooo, give me five more minutes, please?”

“Didn’t sleep well?”

“No, had a really good dream about y -” You stop, and bite your lip.

Yan Qing raises an eyebrow. “Oh? About what?”

“I, um, don’t remember. Just….it was just a good dream, that’s all.”

He grins.


	10. X. Robin Hood [Trust Rituals]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of it, you always ask if he's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (Consensual) edgeplay

It started off as a really bad joke, one that neither of you can even really remember, only the end result.

Which is this, of course - the touch of an arrowhead dragging slowly down your sternum, the sharp point pricking your skin. You want to squirm, to shudder, to let yourself  _ feel _ . But you can’t, your force yourself to hold still and to breathe shallowly, aware that the slightest breaking of skin could lead to your poisoning.

Down further, now, the tip skimming your belly. You know the inevitability of it’s path, and Robin watches you carefully for any sign of you wanting him to stop. And you know what’s unspoken -  _ just say the word, and this will end. _

You don’t stop him. You don’t want him to.

-

Both of you were far too nervous the first time, and even you could make out the slight tremble of his hands. 

The two of you barely spoke, Robin far too intent on making sure he didn’t hurt you with the bladed tip. You lay on the wooden board, feeling and hearing your pulse pound in your ears, loud as thunder, as he traced the bolt down and along your body. Down your sides, up your inner thighs, the flat of the blade pressed against your cunt.

Slowly, the barely-there shaking of his hand steadied, and his concentration was instead focused on your every reaction. 

And when he leaned in to kiss you, you could smell his cigarettes - you knew he had been chain smoking beforehand. The taste of bitterness and cloves was a comfort, and you threaded your hands through his hair, pulling his body flush against yours. For a moment, the bolt was forgotten and you bit at his shoulder.

There was a faint hiss, and then a dull thunk as the bolt sank into the wood, the fixed arrowhead only  _ just _ missing your cheek. You barely held back a shriek. 

“Ah-ah, none of that now.”

There was that playful smile that you were familiar with, but his eyes were dark.

-

It’s a nice little ritual.

He passes you his cigarette, and you take a deep drag. You know he prefers to roll his own, and only buys the cloves because you like them. Robin snakes an arm around you, and you lean against him, resting your head against his shoulder.

“You’re alright? No cuts anywhere?” His eyes flick over your body yet again, just to make sure.

It’s the same question every time. You smile. He always tries to play it off as casually as he can, but he can’t hide the thread of worry in his voice from you.

“I’m good. What about you?” You pass the cigarette back to him. As much as he worries about you, you know it’s just as much of a strain on him, something that he’ll deny with an airy wave of a hand and a little joke. 

“Of course I’m fine, I made you scream, didn’t I?”

There it is, his usual flippant remark. You turn your head, struggle briefly with the bed sheets and press a kiss to his cheek. The cigarette in his mouth dips slightly as he grins.

You always ask anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @twodimensionaltrash for letting me use their idea and play around with it. Please go read their excellent Fate fics - Chaldea, Collected - and check out their Tumblr @novelelitist. 
> 
> Also I know I told a commenter Caster Cu Chulainn would be next but I'm a bitch-ass liar, apparently. I swear he'll be coming up soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and for the kudos/comments/bookmarks
> 
> Tumblr @ atroposisms


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